Every once in a while, we feature new and interesting products for sale. It might be a book, a line of hand-etched leather handbags, some hand-blown glassware or a unique, got-to-have-it doodad that might appeal to our tattoo-loving readers. Sometimes the item is featured simply because we want to congratulate the designer or fabricator or retailer on their ingenuity and entrepreneurial spirit. Like the time we showcased a dog collar maker from San Pedro just because he had SAN PEDRO tattooed on his back in mile-high letters. Or when we reported on a gallery show with tattooists' paintings for sale. It's our way of celebrating industry folks who have more in their lives than simply laying in ink.

But, along with this, come the corporate entities. The well-meaning, typically, non-industry merchandisers who call, send stuff and energetically petition us to devote, free of charge, several pages of our publication to their "completely unique and new" line of T-shirts, rock band CDs or aftercare ointments. These are not, mind you, the wonderful supporters with great products who advertise on our pages and actively give something back to the industry. They are, most often, non-industry promoters simply looking for donated space. We applaud such enthusiasm, but to celebrate a foray into the tattoo world by purely commercial interests who have done nothing more spiritual than follow the dollar sign, is not a train we are willing to ride.

It's the same every time: the marketing representative who calls is all pumped up about their product and convinced we will be too. Like the company that recently pitched me about their tattoo-celebrity T-shirts (long-sleevers made to resemble full bodysuits), only to open their package and find what looked, to me, like a child's pajama top made out of eighty-eight percent polyester and twelve percent spandex. I've seen some pretty righteous versions of this idea, over the years (like, for instance, the famous one replicating Lyle Tuttle's full, upper-, tattoo bodywork), but this wasn't it. And made in Taiwan, to boot. If I were the artist who, agreeing to do the artwork for a few, quick, corporate bucks, had been cajoled to do this work, I'd scream. World-class art on polyester? Not Egyptian cotton or Chinese silk, mind you, but stretchy, image-distorting, eighty-eight percent polyester.

Wait a minute; let me read the fine print on that agreement, again.

On top of that, when they called to see if I had received the merchandise and if we were planning to promote it in a story, and after I politely said, "No, I'm not too crazy about the garment and feel I'd be giving free space to an entirely commercial endeavor," they said they were sending their FedEx number so I could return the item. Return the item? What, the eighty-eight percent Polyester T-shirt made in Taiwan? When I saw on their website that the shirts were going for, up to, $688 per, I was flabbergasted. The tattoo world has become a merchandising maelstrom. Does an artist take the money or turn it down? It's a complicated issue, for sure.

In a recent interview, Lyle Tuttle told me that he had received several major offers to lend his name and legendary collection of tattoo images to a line of corporate-sponsored products. "I won't do it," said Lyle. "When you sign one of those contracts, you're neutered. And nobody's going to neuter me."

Maybe we all should have cajones like that.

Bob Baxter
Editor in Chief

baxter@skin&ink.com
www.skinandink.com